XX.

Tell me, ye sages, whence these feelings rise-
Sorrowful mornings on the darkened soul;
Glimpses of broken, bright, and stormy skies,
O'er which this earth-the heart-has no control?
Why does the sea of thought thus backward roll?
Memory's the breeze that through the cordage raves,
And ever drives us on some homeward shoal,
As if she loved the melancholy waves

That, murmuring shoreward, break, over a reef of graves.

XXI.

Hark, how the merry bells ring o'er the vale,
Now near, remote, or lost, just as it blows.

The red cock sends his voice upon the gale;

From the thatched grange his answering rival crows: The milkmaid o'er the dew-bathed meadow goes, Her tucked-up kirtle ever holding tight ;

And now her song rings thro' the green hedge-rows, Her milk-kit hoops glitter like silver bright:

I hear her lover singing somewhere out of sight.

XXII.

Where soars that spire, our rude forefathers prayed; Thither they came, from many a thick-leaved dell, Year after year, and o'er those footpaths strayed, When summoned by the sounding Sabbath bellFor in those walls they deemed that God did dwell : And still they sleep within that bell's deep sound. Ycn spire doth here of no distinction tell; O'er rich and poor, marble, and earthly mound, The monument of all-it marks one common ground.

SUMMER MORNING.

39

XXIII.

See yonder smoke, before it curls to heaven,
Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall,
Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven;
So on the earth again doth prostrate fall,
And mid the bending green each sin recall.
Now from their beds the cottage-children rise,
Roused by some early playmate's noisy bawl;
And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes,
Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies

XXIV.

The leaves "drop, drop," and dot the crispèd stream So quick, each circle wears the first away; Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream, And to the ripple nods its head alway; The water-flags with one another play, Bowing to every breeze that blows between While purple dragon-flies their wings display: The restless swallow's arrowy flight is seen, Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green

XXV.

The boy who last night passed that darksome lane, Trembling with every sound, and pale with fear; Who shook when the long leaves talked to the rain, And tried to sing, his sinking heart to cheer; Hears now no brook wail ghost-like on his ear, No fearful groan in the black beetle's wing; But where the deep-dyed butterflies appear, And on the flowers like folded pea-blooms swing, With napless hat in hand, he after them doth spring

XXVI.

In the far sky the distant landscape melts, Like pilèd clouds tinged with a darker hue; Even the wood which yon high upland belts Looks like a range of clouds, of deeper blue. One withered tree bursts only on the viewA bald bare oak, which on the summit grows (And looks as if from out the sky it grew): That tree has borne a thousand wintry snows, And seen unnumbered mornings gild its gnarlèd boughs.

XXVII.

Yon weather-beaten gray old finger-post

Stands like Time's land-mark, pointing to decay;
The very roads it once marked out are lost:
The common was encroached on every day
By grasping men who bore an unjust sway
And rent the gift from Charity's dead hands.
That post doth still one broken arm display,

Which now points out where the new workhouse

stands,

As if it said, "Poor man! those walls are all thy lands."

XXVIII.

Where o'er yon woodland-stream dark branches bow, Patches of blue are let in from the sky,

Throwing a checkered underlight below,

Where the deep waters steeped in gloom roll by;
Looking like Hope, who ever watcheth nigh,
And throws her cheering ray o'er life's long night,
When wearied man would fain lie down and die.
Past the broad meadow now it rolleth bright,

Which like a mantle green seems edged with silver light.

SUMMER MORNING.

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XXIX.

All things, save Man, this Summer morn rejoice:
Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view;
Unto the earth below the flowers give voice;
Even the wayside weed of homeliest hue
Looks up erect amid the golden blue,

And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind :—
"O'erlook me not! I for a purpose grew,

Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find: On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind!”

XXX.

England, my country!—land that gave me birth!
Where those I love, living or dead, still dwell,
Most sacred spot-to me-of all the earth;
England! "with all thy faults I love thee well."
With what delight I hear thy Sabbath bell
Fling to the sky its ancient English sound,
As if to the wide world it dared to tell

We own a God, who guards this envied ground, Bulwarked with martyrs' bones-where Fear was never

found.

XXXI.

Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray,
With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view,
And worship Him who guardeth us alway !—

Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue,
Who spake, and from these plains huge cities grew;
Who made thee, mighty England! what thou art,
And asked but gratitude for all His due.

The giver, God! claims but the beggar's part,

BIRDS.

ОH, the sunny summer time!
Oh, the leafy summer time!
Merry is the birds' life,

When the year is in its prime!
Birds are by the water-falls,

Dashing in the rainbow spray; Everywhere, everywhere,

Light and lovely things are they! Birds are in the forest old,

Building in each hoary tree;

Birds are on the green hills,
Birds are on the sea!

On the moor and in the fen,

'Mong the whortleberries green, In the yellow furze-bush

There the joyous bird is seen; In the heather on the hill,

All among the mountain thyme; By the little brooksides,

Where the sparkling waters chime; In the crag, and on the peak, Splintered, savage, wild, and bare, There the bird with wild wings Wheeleth through the air.

Wheeleth through the breezy air,

Singing, screaming in his flight,